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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26396779">No One Lights a Candle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexualjuliet/pseuds/asexualjuliet'>asexualjuliet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Words I Most Regret (are the ones I never meant to leave) [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Veronica Mars (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brief homophobia, Character Study, Crying, Funerals, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Childhood Sexual Abuse, POV Second Person, Post-episode: s02e22 Not Pictured, Referenced Mass Murder, Suicide, working title for this was “ufhfjfhjfdiod casablancas brothers”, wrt people assuming cassidy is gay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:33:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,029</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26396779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexualjuliet/pseuds/asexualjuliet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As far as you can remember, you’ve always been together. You were barely two years old when your little brother was born, and even when you think back as far as you can, you can’t quite remember a time without him. </p><p>Or, Dick looks back and thinks about his brother.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cassidy "Beaver" Casablancas &amp; Dick Casablancas, Dick Casablancas &amp; Logan Echolls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Words I Most Regret (are the ones I never meant to leave) [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982077</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>No One Lights a Candle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>oh boy, Dick confronting his dad about missing Cassidy’s funeral in 3x18 has me feeling all kinds of feelings in this chili’s tonight!</p><p>I really liked that season 3 eventually did let Dick deal with Cassidy’s suicide even if it was at the very end of the season. I wrote this because I think they could’ve done a little more and treated Dick like a person rather than just comic relief for more than like two episodes.</p><p>TW: Suicide, childhood sexual abuse, rape, everything that comes with 2x22<br/>TW: minor homophobic language</p><p>Title from “Requiem” from Dear Evan Hansen because I’m basic.</p><p>Hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As far as you can remember, you’ve always been together. You were barely two years old when your little brother was born, and even when you think back as far as you can, you can’t quite remember a time without him. </p><p>You didn’t used to be so different, believe it or not. Both fair-haired, blue-eyed trust fund babies who smiled wide and laughed often. You haven’t changed much in the nineteen years you’ve been alive. </p><p>Cassidy did. </p><p>His hair went brown at age four or so, and the smiles and laughs became less and less as he got older. </p><p>Looking back, you should have known. </p><p>He got quiet when he was nine. Dad pulled you aside one day and told you to keep an eye on your brother. He was too quiet, too girly, too soft, and Richard Casablancas would be damned if he ended up raising a f*g. </p><p>You were hard on your brother because that’s what your dad taught you. You toughened him up, treated him like one of the guys. Made fun of him, gave him a black eye, called him by the name he hated despite his protests. You did those things for <em> him, </em>or at least that’s what you told yourself. </p><p>Looking back, you wonder if you’re the reason it all went wrong. </p><p>You beat him up, made him cry. You didn’t notice anything unusual when he came home twenty minutes late from baseball practice, when you saw him chuck his Sharks cap into the trash the second your dad let him quit little league, when he threw up approximately two seconds after walking past the threshold of Woody’s Burgers when you dragged him there once with your friends. </p><p>A lot of the things that made Cassidy weird, the things you teased him about for years, could be explained by the season he spent on Woody Goodman’s little league team. The way he flinched if you touched him without warning. The way he tried to change the subject whenever you mentioned something remotely sexual. The way he didn’t fight back when you made fun of him for being a virgin. </p><p>It thoroughly fucks you up when you realize that Cassidy lost his virginity before you did. You always thought he might be gay, thought he was just a prude, made arrangements with girl after girl after girl for him to lose his virginity to. </p><p>He never fought back when you called him a virgin, and looking back, you realize it’s probably because he wished it were true. What you once saw as the greatest verbal weapons in your arsenal <em> (prude, virgin, never gonna get laid) </em> were really just… a fantasy that your brother <em> wished </em> he lived in. Looking back, you realize those are the only insults that never really hurt him. </p><p>You’re <em> sure </em> he wished he was still a virgin, and you can’t quite believe he raped Veronica Mars. You can’t believe he can actually be called a rapist, because the Cassidy you knew was sweet and quiet and nervous, and he’d never hurt a fucking fly. </p><p>Apparently, you didn’t know him for shit. </p><p>Because the Cassidy you knew wouldn’t blow up a fucking bus <em> (does it even mean anything that he got you off of it first?). </em> The Cassidy you knew wouldn’t kill and frame a stuntman for the bus crash <em> he </em> caused, he wouldn’t blow up a plane, and he wouldn’t throw himself off the roof of the Neptune Grand. </p><p>Maybe you just didn’t know him at all. </p><p>You’re in Logan’s penthouse when it happens, drunk off your ass and barely coherent enough to hear Madison Sinclair shout <em> Holy shit, I think someone just jumped off the roof! </em></p><p>The crowd that storms the elevator at these words pulls you along, and in your drunken haze, you barely remember walking out into the lobby. </p><p>But somehow, you’re outside, breathing in a warm spring breeze, and through the buzz, you hear someone say <em> Beaver? </em></p><p>That sobers you right up. You push to the front of the crowd and pray for the first time you can remember. </p><p>Praying doesn’t do shit. The broken body on the sidewalk is facing the sky, and there’s no denying it’s your little brother. </p><p>The noise you make sounds inhuman. It takes a second for you to even realize where it came from, and you can feel everyone's eyes on you. You kneel beside him and try to remember how to find someone’s pulse, because there’s no way in <em> hell </em> your baby brother can be <em> dead.  </em></p><p>There’s no pulse, and the voices behind you aren’t quite drowned out by the pounding of your own heart. </p><p>
  <em> Shelly, call 911. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Holy shit. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There’s no way in hell he survived that jump. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oh my God. Beaver’s dead.  </em>
</p><p><em> Beaver, </em> you say, <em> Come on, Beav. </em></p><p>He doesn’t move, and the whispers behind you get even louder. You shake him a little. </p><p>
  <em> Wake up, Beaver. Shit, man, wake up.  </em>
</p><p>You look into his eyes, big and blue and glassy. </p><p><em> Cassidy, </em>you choke out, tears flooding your own eyes, and you hear police sirens blaring. </p><p><em> Back away! </em>a voice says, and you assume the crowd obeys, but you can’t take your eyes off the lifeless body in front of you. </p><p>He’s not fucking breathing<em>, </em>and the pavement beneath his head is soaked with blood, and you don’t know how long ago his heart stopped beating, but somehow, he looks more peaceful than he has in years. </p><p>He looks so damn <em> young, </em>and all of a sudden, you’re struck by a memory from what has to be at least seven years ago. </p><p>Beaver was nine, maybe. You were ten. You were supposed to hold his hand when you crossed the street, but there was no way in hell that was happening, so there was nothing you could do to stop him when he darted out into the road without looking both ways. He would’ve gotten hit by a car if you hadn’t pushed him out of the way, but he told you he didn’t mean to, and you chalked the incident up to him being a stupid little kid. </p><p>Now, looking at his broken body and the growing pool of blood under his surely-cracked skull, you’re not so sure. </p><p><em> Son, step away from the body, </em>says a policeman, but you don’t move a muscle. </p><p><em> Cassidy, please, </em>you try, a desperate last resort that achieves nothing before the cop kneels down and puts a hand on your shoulder. </p><p><em> Son, </em> he says, <em> please step away from the body.  </em></p><p><em> He’s my brother, </em> you say, voice breaking, but apparently, that doesn’t matter, because you’re being picked up and dragged away before you can say another word. </p><p><em> Cassidy! </em>you cry, and you feel younger than you have in years. Heaving sobs wrack your body as you’re placed into the back of an ambulance. </p><p>You vaguely realize you’re shaking before the sick feeling in your stomach overwhelms you and you spew all the alcohol in your system over the back of the ambulance. </p><p><em> Shit! </em> someone says behind you. <em> Kid, do you have a parent to call? </em></p><p>Your dad’s MIA and your mom doesn’t give a shit and there’s no way in hell you’re letting Kendall see you like this. You shake your head and just fucking sob. </p><p>Ironically, how you feel <em> that night </em>might actually be better than how you feel after you get all the details. </p><p>Then, he was your little brother, pale, lifeless, bleeding out, but at least people felt sorry for him, for you. </p><p>Now, he’s a fucking mass murderer <em> and </em> a rapist, and people don’t give a shit that he’s dead. </p><p>Six people show up to the funeral, but then again, you’re not sure you should count your mom or Kendall, who are there out of blatant obligation. </p><p>Besides them, four people are present to watch you completely fall apart all over again. </p><p>Logan’s here, which doesn’t really surprise you, and so’s the computer whiz Cassidy had been dating. Veronica Mars sits in between them, holding one of her friends’ hands in each of her own. In the back of the church sits Gia Goodman, in a black coat and sunglasses, clearly trying not to be noticed. You kind of wish she wasn’t here. </p><p><em> I’m sorry, </em> she tells you, as you’re leaving the church. </p><p><em> Bullshit, </em>you say, and she looks a little hurt. </p><p><em> I really am, </em>she tries, and you don’t believe her for a goddamn second. </p><p><em> He killed your dad, </em>you remind her. </p><p><em> My dad did a lot worse to him, </em>she says, and those words put a lot of unwelcome thoughts in your mind, so you just walk away. </p><p><em> I really am sorry! </em>she calls after you. You ignore her and get in the back of your stepmother’s car. You sit in silence as she follows a hearse to a graveyard two towns over.</p><p>(Not a single cemetery in Neptune was willing to house the remains of a mass murderer).</p><p>You miss him, and you feel bad that you do, but he was your <em> brother, </em>and the kid you knew isn’t the bloodthirsty killer everyone seems to think he was. </p><p>Then again, you wonder if you really knew him that well.</p><p>He was hurting. He was abused, he was traumatized, he was suffering, and you didn’t notice. </p><p>You treated him like shit for sixteen years, and you could blame your father for that, but you’re not going to. It’s your fault. </p><p>Sure, it’s not <em> all </em>your fault. That son-of-a-bitch mayor definitely played a big part in Cassidy’s slow but devastating unraveling, and your dad was awful to him, too… </p><p>But you were his big brother. You were supposed to protect him, and you failed. You made him cry, beat him up, just <em> hurt </em>him for the sheer enjoyment of it, and thinking about the way you treated him makes your stomach churn. </p><p>Sometimes, when you can’t sleep (which is most of the time), you go to his room and just cry. You look at his things, just the way he left them, all folded and put away, the freak. You don’t touch anything, for fear of destroying the memories the room holds. You just sit in the middle of the floor and sob your heart out. </p><p>Kendall catches you once, a few weeks after he dies. It’s probably three in the morning and you don’t know how long you’ve been crying, but his bedroom door creaks and you snap your head up. </p><p>The door’s just slightly ajar, and you can barely make out her face through the dark, but your mom skipped town the second the funeral ended, and Kendall’s the only other person you’ve seen for weeks. </p><p>You make eye contact for a brief second, and you see something like pity in her eyes. You blink and she’s gone. </p><p>You actually kind of get the impression that Kendall cares about you? Your dad’s been gone for six months, and she’s still around. She could have picked up and left the second her eight-million-dollar-payout came through, but she stayed. </p><p>You’re not stupid, you know she preferred Beaver — <em> Cassidy </em>to you. Cassidy made her millions. But you’re the only two Casablancases left, and you figure you should probably stick together, at least until you go off to college. </p><p>You get kicked out of your dorm at Hearst basically the second you get there. There’s no way in hell you’re going back home now that Kendall’s… wherever she is, and the only place you can think to go is the place you least want to be.</p><p>You don’t look down at the sidewalk when you walk up to the door. You don’t remember <em> that night, </em>you don’t remember a crowd of people or a pool of blood or puking off the back of an ambulance. </p><p>Except that you do. And you’re drunk as fuck, just like you were <em> that night, </em> and you ride the elevator to the penthouse, just like you did <em> that night, </em>and the look Logan gives you when he opens the door makes you want to cry. </p><p><em> I don’t have anywhere else to go, </em>you tell him, and you’ve been the shittiest friend in the world for the last three months, and Logan owes you absolutely nothing, but he just nods. </p><p><em> Yeah, hey, it's all right, </em> he says, in a voice so gentle it’s like he thinks you’re gonna break. <em> I… you can stay here. </em></p><p>He jerks his head, waving you in, but you don’t move, because it turns out Logan was right about you being about to break, and you burst into tears. </p><p>Logan puts a hand on your shoulder, and <em> why </em>is he being so nice to you when you’ve been such a dick to him ever since your brother died?</p><p>And speaking of your brother—</p><p><em> I messed up bad, </em>you tell him through your tears. </p><p><em> It’s gonna be okay, </em> he says, but your brother is dead and it’s <em> your fault, </em>and you just cry harder</p><p><em> Come here, </em>Logan says, and he pulls you into a hug. </p><p>You can’t remember the last time someone hugged you, and normally you’d just laugh and call Logan queer, but you think that a hug is actually exactly what you need right now as you continue to sob in his arms. </p><p>Cassidy was always the one who cried. Cried over just about everything, from dead pet goldfish to throbbing black eyes. Cassidy was the one who cried, and your father taught you early on that that meant he was weaker, softer, less of a real man. </p><p>But now, as you cry into Logan’s shoulder, probably getting tears or snot or both on his t-shirt, he doesn’t say anything like that. </p><p><em> It’s okay, </em> he says, rubbing your back. <em> Shit, man, it’s okay.  </em></p><p>Logan didn’t have anyone to hug him like this when his girlfriend died. When his mom killed herself, when his dad tried to kill his new girlfriend. You’re both broken, bruised 09er boys with shitty fathers and absent mothers and a whole fucking Shakespeare tragedy in your pasts, and you think this hug is making up for the love neither of you ever got. </p><p>You stand like that until you’re all cried out, and Logan leads you into his suite. </p><p><em> I miss him, too, you know, </em> he says, when the two of you are sitting on the couch with some shitty <em> Friends </em>rerun on the TV as background noise. </p><p><em> You shouldn’t, </em>you tell him, pretending to care about what’s on the TV. </p><p><em> He was a good kid, </em>Logan says. </p><p><em> He killed twelve people, </em> you say. <em> He raped your girlfriend.  </em></p><p><em> He was supremely fucked up, </em> Logan responds, <em> but that wasn’t his fault.  </em></p><p><em> I miss him, </em>you say. </p><p>
  <em> I know.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I wish I didn’t.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I know.  </em>
</p><p><em> It was my fault, </em>you say, and Logan shakes his head. </p><p>
  <em> Bullshit.   </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I should have known— </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You couldn’t have.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I should have— </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dick.  </em>
</p><p>He cuts you off and meets your eyes. </p><p><em> You were just a kid, </em>he says. </p><p><em> So was he, </em>you respond. </p><p>
  <em> None of us could have known. </em>
</p><p><em> We should have, </em>you say, and he can’t argue with that. </p><p>You get good at ignoring what happened last year. You walk past the spot where he died every goddamn day, and after a while you get used to averting your eyes. </p><p>You’ve seen on TV that when most people jump, they get, like, little shrines, little memorials where it happened, with candles and flowers and messages and whatever. </p><p>Cassidy doesn’t. </p><p>Cassidy gets seven people at his funeral.</p><p>Cassidy gets a grave two towns over. </p><p>Cassidy gets a true crime special on a shitty TV network that paints him as a cold-blooded, murderous psychopath and barely even mentions why he did what he did. </p><p>Cassidy doesn’t get <em> shit.  </em></p><p>You don’t visit his grave. You tell yourself it’s because it’s not in town, because you don’t have the time, because <em> what will people say if they see you mourning a murderer? </em></p><p>You know in your heart that it’s really because you don’t want to think about his body rotting away six feet under. You don’t want to read <em> Cassidy Miles Casablancas, 1989 - 2006 </em>and remind yourself that he was just a kid. </p><p>You finally drive to the cemetery a little over a year after the night he died. Kneel down at his grave like you’d kneeled beside his body <em> that night </em> and trace the stone-carved letters in front of you. </p><p>
  <em> Cassidy Miles Casablancas </em>
</p><p>
  <em> 1989 - 2006 </em>
</p><p>Looking at the words, the average passerby might assume Cassidy died when he was seventeen. You know that he died a week and five days before his birthday. </p><p>You are, or you <em> were </em>one year, five months, and two days older than him. When he died, you were eighteen. </p><p>Now, <em> he </em> is. </p><p><em> Happy Birthday, Cass, </em> you say, the childish nickname unfamiliar coming off your tongue. You can’t remember the last time you called him <em> Cass </em> to his face, or even called him <em> Cassidy. </em> It was always <em> Beaver, </em> maybe <em> Beav, </em> but never <em> Cassidy.  </em></p><p><em> I’m sorry, </em> you say. <em> God, Cassidy, I’m so fucking sorry.  </em></p><p>The stone says nothing. </p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry for trying to make you cry so often.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry for taping your feet to your bike pedals when we were kids.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry for calling you a prude and a homo and a virgin and saying all that shit I never should have said.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry for making fun of you when you cried.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry I didn’t notice when you came home late from baseball.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry I didn’t notice when you walked out into the street in front of that car.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry I didn’t notice the way you flinched when someone touched you, the way you stopped smiling, the way you got quiet.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry I missed all the little details I could have used to save you.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fuck, Cassidy, I’m so fucking sorry.  </em>
</p><p>There’s a silence. You don’t quite know what else to say. </p><p><em> You were a good brother, </em>you finally say.</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry I wasn’t.  </em>
</p><p>You sigh. <em> Happy birthday, </em>you say again, getting up and starting to walk away. </p><p>You look back. </p><p>
  <em> Cassidy Miles Casablancas </em>
</p><p>
  <em> 1989-2006 </em>
</p><p><em> Bye, Cassidy, </em>you say, and you don’t turn back again. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading!</p><p>All mistakes are my own, please let me know if you see any!</p><p>Kudos/Comments are greatly appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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